


The Language of Flowers

by Sterling_Starlight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Relationships, Bernadetta is an angel, Byleth more like BI-leth, Characters will be tagged as they prominently appear, F!Byleth/Edelgard If you squint, F/F, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I run to the greenhouse every free day ergo Bylass likes flowers, Leonie is a insensitive jerk, M/M, No beta I am a sleep deprived potato, Seteth has almost forgotten what romantic love feels like and Byleth has no good point of reference, Silver Snow Route, write the fluff you want to see in the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-08-09 21:30:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sterling_Starlight/pseuds/Sterling_Starlight
Summary: Byleth had, unknowingly, inherited her mother’s love for flowers. As such, she practically lived in the green house and almost always smelled of soil. What she didn’t say in words she said in flowers; and that was perfectly fine.





	1. Daisies for Innocence

Byleth was, by Jeralt’s approximation, eight years old when she first discovered her love of flowers. It was one of the few times they stayed in a village for more than a day, and Byleth, ever the curious one, had followed some children into a nearby field of flowers. When Jeralt has gone to collect her that evening, one of the lesser nobles (the wife of a wealthy carpenter) had told him, in no uncertain terms, that his daughter needed to learn how to interact with people if she ever hoped to get anywhere in life. Apparently Byleth had scared the lady’s little brat by “staring at her with frightening eyes”. It wasn’t anything Jeralt hadn’t heard before, and he was actually rather proud of how well he managed to hold his tongue. 

Byleth was sitting in the field all alone when he found her, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she struggled with the flowers in her hands. “Hey there, kid,” Jeralt greeted amicably as he approached. He knelt down to her eye level, despite the protest of his knees, and continued. “What do you have there?”

“Flower wreath,” Byleth replied flatly. She held up her work for Jeralt to appraise, causing some of the daisies to fall out of the sloppy loops she had tried to make. The corners of her mouth twitched downwards, the only indication of her displeasure. “The other girls ran away before I could watch how they did it.”

“Well. That was just rude.” Jeralt finally resigned to sitting and Byleth automatically crawled into his lap. It was as physically affectionate as she probably would ever be, so Jeralt took the small blessing for what it was. “Fortunately for you, your old man knows how to weave flower wreaths.” He continued, picking a few daisies to start his own chain. It was a skill imparted to him by his late wife. She had always decorated his armor with intricate chains of flowers that had been lovingly grown by her own hands. Some of the other knights snickered, but Jeralt never once paid them any heed. If it made his wife happy, he’d stick flowers anywhere they would stay. 

Byleth watched with rapt attention at her father’s work, looking up from her hands to his as she diligently tried to copy him. In between his demonstration and verbal guidance, the two had two pairs of daisy chains. One obviously tighter and neater than the other, but seeing Byleth smile as she proudly held out her in-tact wreath warmed Jeralt’s heart. He placed his wreath on Byleth’s head and, in some smooth motion, scooped her up into his arms. “Alright, time to go. We’ve got an early morning -and don’t you give me that look. You’re the one who insisted I teach you how to use a sword. You signed up for this.” 

Byleth continued to look up at him with the most indignant look she could muster, before huffing a sigh through her nose and returning to her usual neautral expression. It put Jeralt’s mind at ease knowing that this little girl was capable of at least _some _emotion. Compared to when she was a baby, seeing even the tiniest change in her face was like witnessing a small miracle. And that she seemed to be developing a love for flowers? Hell, it was almost enough to make him fall to his knees and thank the Goddess. _Almost_. But in any case, at least now he had a better idea on what to get her for her birthday


	2. Daffodils for New Beginnings; Pink Tulips for Confidence

Teach. Archbishop Rhea wanted her to _teach_. And it wasn’t like they were starting her off easy, that would make too much sense. Rhea wanted Byleth to teach some of the brightest minds on the entire continent. _Her. _A mercenary she had literally met twenty-four hours ago. Byleth was of a mind with… what was his name? Seth? Seto? Goddess, she couldn’t even remember a single person’s name; how was she going to survive teaching a class of young adults?

For what seemed like the thousandth time that morning, she flipped through the lesson course Hanneman had been kind enough to help put together. She had chosen to teach the Black Eagle house because they, quite frankly, seemed to be the least chaotic of her choices. Claude was charming and Dimitri was virtuous, but their housemates… they were something else. Looking over the notes on her students Hanneman had also provided (that man was a gift), Byleth was at least somewhat confident she could teach them without making herself look like the biggest fool in Fódlan. The bell rang to signify the beginning of the morning classes, and Byleth looked to the daffodils and pink tulips she had in a small vase on her desk.

Edelgard marched in first, the very picture of poise and flawless grace. Behind her was Hubert, a living shadow who surveyed the classroom like he was expecting assasin to jump out from somewhere. His visible eye scanned Byleth up and down, cold and judgemental and all together not impressed. He scoffed at the bright flowers, but said nothing as he took his seat. Caspar jogged in, Lindhardt tossed over his shoulder, who was only making the token effort to not look completely lifeless. Dorothea sauntered in like she owned the place, and gave Byleth a flirtatious smile and wink that made her cheeks feel warm and mentally remind herself that _these were her students, minimal age gap or no. _Ferdinand carried himself like he was the most important person in the room. Petra was an odd combination of poise and confidence, yet constantlay seemed to be on her guard. Poor little Bernadetta looked like she’d much rather have the floor swallow her than sit in a room with other people for the next few hours. Byleth could relate. 

She took a deep breath to steady herself and walked around her desk to greet her new class. “I just want you all to know: just because I’m not that much older doesn’t mean I’ll be lackadaisical in any way. I’ve spent my entire life as a mercenary, so I’ve had much more practical experience than the other professors, if I may be so bold.” It was a bluff. At least, 90% of one. She didn’t know what kind of life Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman has before teaching, but it had to be less life-risking than being a mercenary. Unless life as an opera singer and researcher was more cut-throat than she thought. 

Byleth looked over her students. Other than Hubert, they didn’t look disgusted or disappointed some random soldier-for-hire was going to be teaching them. So far so good. “Now then, to get started,” she walked over to the board and began drawing a diagram. “Edelgard, you were in this scenario the other day, but I want you to think of this like you’re the commander. You find yourself out-numbered in a heavily forested area, and only have five units, including yourself…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s them, it’s my kids! I love everyone in the Black Eagles so much, you don’t even know. Also, you’d be surprised how hard it was to find out daffodils and pink tulips can mean what they do in this chapter.


	3. White Heather for Protection; Lily of The Valley for Trust

Sothis could count all the reasons she longed for a physical body on both her hands, and then probably all her toes. She could not feel sunlight, or rain, or the feeling of grass under her feet. She could feel when it was hot or cold, but it was distant. Muted by flesh and blood and bones that were not her own. She could not taste or smell anything which, considering the delectable-looking foods that sometimes graced the monestary’s dining hall. Oh yes, Sothis was going to find whomever tied her to Byleth, and have some words with them.

Alas, as much as she wanted to seek out answers (and deliver retribution), in her current state she was completely unable to. Not unless Byleth took the initiative, which she probably never would unless the intrigue hit her over the head. But, oh, if a student lost an item, Byleth went running across all of creation to return it! And if she wasn’t doing that, she was fishing, eating, drinking tea, or gardening. The latter of which Byleth was doing right then, contentedly humming away as she tended to a patch of budding flowers.

Sothis crossed her arms over her chest and hovered Byleth’s shoulder, unseen to all but her. It wasn’t that Sothis didn’t like flowers (somewhere, deep in her memories, she recalled being rather fond of lilies), but there were at least a dozen things she’d much rather do than look at plants all day. And it wasn’t as if Byleth was any good for conversation either. As soon as lectures finished, she became nonverbal, only speaking when it was absolutely necessary. Apparently, conversing with Sothis wasn’t on the list of things Byleth considered important enough to start talking again. The impudence made Sothis want to smack Byleth upside her head, but sadly she couldn’t do even that. 

“_You know, it’s a bright, beautiful sunny day. Wouldn’t you much rather be outside?” _Sothis coaxed. Byleth simply shrugged her shoulders, brushed the soil from her hands and moved to another planter. Sothis groaned and reluctantly followed. “_At the very least, can you explain why these plants are so fascinating to you? Ramble! Rant! Anything except this unbearable silence.” _

Byleth locked eyes with Sothis and pursed her lips. She jerked her head at the only other person who frequented the greenhouse as often as she did: Dedue, an absolute beast of a man who must have had some giant’s blood in him to be _that_ tall. He was Prince Dimitri’s retainer, but that was all that Sothis really knew about him. That, and he and Byleth were probably two most socially inept people on the entire planet. But that was neither here nor there. Sothis clucked her tongue,

“_Are you seriously worried he’ll overhear? You do realize that the students are far from normal, do you not? Just the other day, one of your own threatened you with murder, because you’re the imperial princess’s favorite teacher.” _This gave Byleth pause and Sothis smirked triumphantly. “_Now then,” _she flew over the flower bed, contemplating the blooms carefully. “_These ones. What are they, and what do they mean?”_

It took a second to identify the flowers Sothis pointed out. When she did, Byleth’s voice was quiet and controlled, “White heather. They can mean good luck, or fulfillment of a dream, or protection.”

“_I see. And these?” _

“Lobelia. Malevolence.”

“_Surely you jest! How could such loveley flowers mean something so callous?”_

_“No jest. _Whoever planted them may have not known the meaning.”

“_Fair enough. How about….”_

By the end of the day, Byleth had a vase of white heather and lily of the valley in her room at Sothis’s insistence. Just to add come color to the space of course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sothis: I do not know exactly who or what I am, but I expect you to give me the respect I deserve for saving you.  
Also Sothis: I’m boooooored! You’ve already stopped dancing because you’re boring. Let us go spy on the Archbishop.
> 
> Yeah, I like her. She only had something to say whenever something plot relevant happened, but I imagine her patience with Byleth’s off-day shenanigans would wear thin pretty quickly. 
> 
> Also, a wild Dedue appeared! Why can’t I garden with him on all routes? That’s all I want.


	4. Flowers for Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever stop wanting wholesome parent-child bonding between Jeralt and Byleth? Will I never not cry during the aftermath of Jeralt’s death? PROBABLY NOT.  
also, over 100 kudos? Hot damn, I love you guys.

Jeralt was a the type of man who stuck out like a sore thumb in the greenhouse. He blended in perfectly in smokey bars, or a battlefield, or the knight’s hall; but seeing him surrounded by delicate plants was... odd. Even the kindly middle-aged woman who helped tend the plants didn’t seem to know what to think about Fódlan’s greatest knight picking flowers. Byleth, despite knowing him for two decades, wasn’t immune to the oddity. She had seen Jeralt wield spears, axes, swords, his fists, and on one occasion an empty bottle of wine; but never once gardening shears. 

“Papa?” The name slipped out before Byleth could correct it to the more formal and proper “Father”, and she blinked in surprise. Even Jeralt seemed to be taken aback at being referred to the less formal title after nearly five months.

“Huh. Seems I was wrong. Garreg Mach _hasn’t _yet turned you into another courtly doll.” Jeralt smiled and beckoned her over with a soil-spotted hand. “Anyway, c’mere. I want you to help me with something.” Curious, Byleth set her watering can down and approached. Jeralt passed a few perfectly cut, purple-pink colored peonies into her hands with a grunt of “hold these” before moving onto another planter. Pastel pink hydrangea, deep purple lavender, and fragrant jasmine were added to the collection before Jeralt was satisfied. He returned the shears and left the greenhouse, Byleth close at his heels. She quirked on eyebrow at Jeralt’s back and spoke, unable to contain the question.

“Papa, who are these for?” All of these flowers represented love, spanning the entire spectrum from affectionate to passionate. Had someone at the monestary caught his eye? Actually... that probably wasn’t the case. Despite Manuela coming onto him with all the subtlety of a peacock, he hadn’t shown any signs of reciprocating. And, sure, some knights had hero-idolizing crushes on him, but none of them were required. 

Jeralt scratched the back of his head and, after a heavy pause, replied: “Your mother.” He sighed, suddenly looking and sounding like all the of decades he had lived thus far were finally starting to weigh on him. Contrarywise, it hardly effected Byleth at all. For twenty-something years, Byleth could never once remember feeling the weight of the void where a mother should have been. People saw her round face, deep blue hair and lavender eyes and commented that she must had, mercifully, taken after her mother; but it had never really meant anything. Nearly five months of teaching might have unlocked her emotions, but it didn’t make her mourn the mother she didn’t even know. 

The two walked solemnly to the other side of the monastery. The cemetery was small and unassuming, although that was probably for the better. Jeralt took the collection of flowers from Byleth’s arms and carefully arranged them on a modest, unassuming grave. The headstone hadn’t been well cared for. The name that was etched on the headstone had been worn away by time and ill-maintenance. Jeralt traced calloused fingers over where the name should have been, and growled. 

Byleth, unsure of what do do, lowered herself onto her knees before the grave. Jeralt sat next to her, legs crossed as to take up as little space as possible. “Her name was Grace,” he announced. His eyes narrowed, and he scowled. “Despite Lady Rhea clearly wanting everyone to forget she ever existed, her name was Grace.” There were so many emotions in that proclamation. Anger and bitterness. Reverence and fond memories. Love. 

Byleth learned forward to examine the headstone. The only things clearly visible were the dates. “Papa,” Byleth began carefully. “If this is accurate, she only lived to be twenty.” That’s what shocked her more than sitting above her mother’s grave. This woman, whom Jeralt would hang the stars in the sky for, had died at _twenty. _Just barely older than her Black Eagles. 

Jeralt flinched like he had been punched in the stomach. “Yeah,” He croaked out. “She died young... far too young.” The pause between them was suffocating . “You don’t feel anything being here, do you?” He asked at length. Byleth blinked and stammered to find an answer. Jeralt held up a hand to silence her. “That’s... probably my fault. I never spoke of her while we were mercenaries, and I had twenty odd years to do it. I should have at least brought up her name. I just.. I don’t know...”

It wasn’t like Jeralt to sound so... vulnerable. Even at his worst, he still retained his usual rigidity. Not even when the two of them were barely able to afford food did he sound like this. It was unnatural. But now, more than any other time, Byleth realized that Jeralt was only human. His accolades and strength and general demeanor, made him seem like he was a war hero from a folk tale come to life. But here, in this quiet cemetery, Byleth saw him for what he was. A mortal man who had was world-weary. Who had seen too much, and hadn’t gotten over the death of his wife. 

Byleth linked elbows with Jeralt and leaned her head against his shoulders. “Tell me about her,” She requested. “Were the flowers we picked her favorite, or are they just symbolic?” 

“A little of both. Her favorites were actually Duscur orchids. _Of course _her favorite flower would be one that is nearly impossible to get these days.” He chuckled fondly. “But that aside. Your mother was kind to everyone. A wonderful cook...”

Jeralt and Byleth spend the remainder of the day like that. If Seteth or one of Byleth’s students came looking for either one, they were shooed away by well meaning souls who hadn’t seen either of them all day. Even Edelgard said she hadn’t the faintest idea where her teacher had run off to; but she would probably be back before dark. And Alois _most certainly _didn’t know where the Captain was, but Captain Jeralt would be found when he wanted to be. 


	5. Purple Freesia for Royalty and Beauty; Purple Hyacinth for Regret; Dark Pink Roses For Admiration

To catch Edelgard unaware was something that not an accomplishment man you could claim to boast. Claude could, of course, but the impish young man seemed to have an incredible talent for making everyone’s heckles raise. Byleth wasn’t nearly as conniving, but even she could admit seeing Edelgard normally pristine facade of grace and control crack. Even if it was just for a moment. 

“Professor,” Edelgard began carefully, looking down at the deep purple freesia Byleth was presenting her with. “It is not as though I do not appreciate the gesture. But why are you giving me a flower?” 

Byleth blinked and readjusted the large bouquet she had cradled in her other arm. A large, fragarant and colorful assortment that didn’t seem to have any sort of connecting theme, outside of their individual beauty. “You are all graduating soon,” Byleth explained. The corners of her mouth twitched down. “Everyone here is going to be changing so much. Even I-”

“Stop right there,” Edelgard interrupted. She frowned, her eyes hardening. “If you were going to say that you’re going to change once you receive your Revelation, I must disagree. No matter what happens in the Holy Tomb, I promise you will be the same woman coming out as you were going in.” 

“You think so?”

“All the Revelation will do is guide you towards your destined path. Moreover, even if something did happen, I have no doubt you would fight tooth and nail to return to us. You already have done so once, after all. So please, my teacher, banish those doubts from your mind.” Edelgard took the offered freesia and, after considering it for a few seconds, tucked it behind her ear. 

The purple of the flower brought out the lavender of her eyes and the paleness of her skin. Edelgard put the beauty of the flower to shame. Byleth averted her eyes and cleared her throat, sternly reminding herself that, despite being the newly crowned Adrestian emperor, Edelgard was _still _her student. Byleth cleared her throat loudly. 

“Thank you. In any case, I need to give the rest of these flowers to the other students before the end of the day.”

“I shall accompany you. You can tell me what each flower means while we walk.”

“If you insist. Maybe having you with me will stop Hubert from poisoning me with the buttercups I plan on giving him.”

“You are giving Hubert _buttercups?” _Edelgard laughed delicately behind a hand, the sound as clear and lovely as a church bell. “In that case, I simply must accompany you, if not just to see the look on his face.”

~~~~

Five years of negligence had left the monastery’s greenhouse a mess of dead plants, weeds, and icy wines that grew unabated up the pillars and walls. Five years of life, passed by in an instant while Byleth slept at the bottom of a ravine. In the blink of an eye, Edelgard had gone from her beloved student to someone whom Byleth was now expected to fight against. Freesias tucked into her hair had turned into the Sword of The Creator pointed at her throat. How did it come to this? 

Byleth ran her fingers over the purple hyacinth and dark pink roses she had found in her room. Knowing what they meant made Byleth’s heart ache. 

“I thought I would find you here.” Dorothea’s smooth, dulcet voice echoed across the destroyed greenhouse. The horrors of war had hit her the hardest, Byleth felt. Her usual bright, flirtatious nature had shriveled away and died, leaving a world-weary woman who had grown tired of fighting long ago. Dorothea approached Byleth, her heels clicking rhythmically against the stone. “Seeing the greenhouse like this after you and everyone else worked so hard…. it’s heart breaking.”

“It will take a long time, but we can at least partially restore it.” Byleth said, already making a mental checklist of all the things they would need to return the greenhouse to even a fraction of its previous splendor. Dorothea sat down next to Byleth and smoothed out her skirt. Byleth pulled a petal off one of the roses. “Be honest. What’s happened with Edelgard… the path she’s chosen… do you think it’s my fault?” 

“What?” Dorothea stared, wide-eyed. “Why would you ever even think that? Professor, you’ve been gone -presumed _dead- _for five years. None of what has happened is your fault.” 

“Before five years ago, I mean,” Byleth confirmed, pulling off another petal. “If I had chosen to protect her in the Holy Tomb,” and another, “If I hadn’t sided with Rhea,” another. “If I had stayed by her side, and tried to guide her away from _this.” _ The rose petals drifted listlessly from Byleth’s hands, gathering in a soft pile near her feet. 

“… Even if you did all that, I think this war was inevitable.” Dorothea replied, her gaze distant. “The Church of Seiros wouldn’t just roll over and die, even if you made yourself it’s enemy. We would still be fighting a war. Fighting people we once called friends. The only difference is that Edie and Hubie would be with us.” 

The rose Byleth had been picking at was left bare. She dropped it to the floor and started on another one. “Perhaps. I just… I feel like if I had been there at the beginning, if I had the oppertunkty to talk to her for _five minutes_, we could have thought of a way to resolve this peacefully.” Byleth sighed heavily and slumped forward, elbows on her knees and face cradled in her hands. “I sided with Rhea because I thought that would end the bloodshed before it started. But in the end, that choice accomplished nothing….” A sob shook her body as she began to weep. As slowly and carefully as if she were made of glass, Dorothea pulled Byleth into an embrace and whispered comforting words into her hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My useless lesbian ass: I’m going to side with Edelgard because I’m trying to romance her  
Also my useless lesbian ass: But wait, siding with Edelgard means fighting against everyone who isn’t in The Black Eagles. :C   
Also, buttercups are poisonous to humans. Not deadly, but they cause all sorts of pain and misery if ingested. You know, things Hubert is totally into.


	6. Gladiolus for The Fallen

The Professor had, if nothing else, inherited one thing from her father: if she did not wish to be found, then one would have a difficult time doing so. Seteth has checked the greenhouse, but she was shockingly absent. Cyril informed him that she had been there earlier, but he hadn’t the faintest clue where she went after. 

He checked the graveyard. Freshly cut gladiolus and lavender had been laid atop Jeralt and his wife’s grave, but their daughter was nowhere to be seen. Whatever game Byleth was playing, Seteth _was not _amused. The preparations for their march on Fort Merceus were nearing completion, and the army’s general had decided to play hide-and-seek. Honestly, that woman… Seteth still wasn’t quite sure if she was a genius of unparalleled skill, or just had the longest-running streak of good fortune he had ever seen. 

He was directed to Catherine, who asked Shamir, who told him to ask Alois, who quickly passed the responsibility to Leonie, before Seteth _finally_ had an idea as to where Byleth was. She had gone up to the battlements. Seteth could feel his eye twitching as her march purposely towards his destination. He had made laps around the monestary, but _of course _she was at the last place he’d ever think to look. Utterly ridiculous. 

It was sunset when he finally found her, and Seteth found that any desire to scold her died on his tongue. Silhouetted against the fading light of the sun, with her back against the wind and a large bushel of gladiolus in her arms, Byleth stood. Methodically, almost reverently, she placed the blooms against her lips before letting it go, allowing the wind to carry it where it willed. It was almost like Seteth had intruded on something private, something only Byleth could understand the significance of. Something almost… sacred. Seteth turned to leave, but Byleth called out to him before he could.

“I know you’re there,” she said. “Come and join me. I wouldn’t mind the company.” Breathing through his nose Seteth complied, stopping a perfectly respectable arm’s length away from Byleth as she continued her ritual. He watched as a gladiolus with deep red petals blew away from the monestary before clearing his throat.

“Might I ask what you are doing?”

“Honoring the fallen.” Byleth paused, a light blue gladiolus near her lips. She twirled the stem in between her fingers. “You must be wondering why I’m doing this. None of _our _soldiers were lost at Gronder Field.” She kissed the petals and this close Seteth could hear her whisper a prayer before letting the flower go. Seteth felt his chest clench. 

“Not at all,” Seteth replied, hands clasped firmly behind his back. “I have offered my prayers to the lives that were lost, and to the families they have left behind. It is honestly reassuring to know you mourn for those who do not march under your banner.”

Byleth made a sound from the back of her throat and tossed another flower. When her bouquet dwindled down to two, she spoke up again. “There’s a field in Alliance territory,” she began. “People say that, in spring, flowers bloom as far as the eye can see, in every color you can think of. Even flowers from Duscur, and Almyra, and Brigid bloom there. After this war is over… I want to see it. I want to see if the Duscur orchids my mother loved grow there.” Byleth paused, twirling the last gladiolus flower between her fingers. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. “Come with me.”

Seteth was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“You once told me that where you go, and what you do depends on me. Did you not?” Byleth closed her eyes and breathe deep deeply, holding the flower to her chest. “So come with me to that flower field. We’ll bring Flayn, of course, I’m sure she’d love to see it. And, who knows? Maybe we’ll decide to settle down there. Just the three of us.”

Seteth choked on his breath. His shock would have been more apparent, were he a less composed man. How was it that a few innocent sentences could knock him off kilter so?

Byleth seemed surprised as well, fingers touching her lips and eyes wide like she couldn’t believe she had said that aloud. Her vibrant green eyes met his own, redness spreading across her cheeks. They must have looked like a couple of fools, standing there in dying sunlight of early evening, struggling to speak due to the sheer amount of emotion in the air.

It had a name, this feeling. It had several. But there were too many uncertainties. To much work to be done. No way for either of them to know they’d even live to see the end of the war.

Seteth finally broke the tension. “I am… not opposed to that idea. I’m confident that Flayn would be overjoyed to see an entire field of flowers in bloom. But before we plan for the future, we must focus on what lies directly in front of us. I actually sought you out because I wished to discuss our assault on Fort Merceus with you.” 

“Fort Merceus,” Byleth repeated, voice distant. She nodded, “Right. Right. Of course.” She looked down at the remaining gladiolus in her hands and worried her bottom lip. She mouthed ‘no’ before letting the wind carry it from her hands. When she looked to Seteth her face was a near-perfect mask of stoic professionalism. “Shall we, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually didn’t know gladiolus was an actual flower until I looked it up. I highly recommend my readers do the same, because they’re REALLY pretty.  
In the real world, gladiolus flowers can mean strength, integrity, or remembrance. In Fódlan, they seem to be the flowers left on the graves of soldiers, so that’s what I went for here. They also mean another thing, but I’ll let you guys figure it out -3o  
The first draft had Byleth and Seteth talking about the glimpses into different timelines fusing with Sothis allows her to see, but I decided to keep the focus on flowers and feelings. Wibbly -wobbly timey-wimey angst can come later. Consequentially, this means that I broke my own heart listening to Seteth cry over Flayn’s death for no reason.
> 
> *Bonus*  
Jeralt, watching Byleth fall in love with a servant of a questionable church just like he did: I can’t even be disappointed or surprised.


	7. Bury Her in Red Carnations

Byleth’s army had, for very obvious reasons, not been allowed to watch as the remnants of the Imperial Army buried their Emperor. When Byleth tearfully pleaded that carnation she be planted on her grave (because red carnations were Edelgard’s _favorite) _she was met with glares and sneers. Byleth was nothing more than a puppet of the church who had just committed regicide. Her tears and pleads meant nothing to those who had devoted themselves wholly to Edelgard.

They eventually rescued Rhea, the woman so pale and sickly she looked to be on the verge of death. She had clung to Byleth like a child would their mother, nuzzling her cheek into Byleth’s shoulder until the fatigue once again claimed her. 

The victory tasted like ash on her tongue and left her feeling hollow. The corpse that had been left behind hadn’t been that of an enemy or a tyrant. It had been a person whom Byleth had developed strong feelings for. Feelings that, if the fates were kinder, might have blossomed into something deeply meaningful. To say it could have been love seemed too passionate emotion. 

(After all, Byleth still wasn’t sure what love felt like. Her chest constricted with warmth whenever Seteth was near her, and she longed for his touch, but was that love?) 

The army’s return to the monastery was melancholic, to put it simply. Rhea was finally moved from Byleth’s arm by Seteth and carried to the infirmary almost as soon as everyone was in the entrance hall. Marianne and Flayn followed closely at his heels.

“It doesn’t feel right,” Bernadetta said, her voice weak and hoarse. She hadn’t stopped crying since they left Enbarr. She cleared her throat and began again, “I know that Edelgard was our enemy, and that she did horrible things, but she was still our friend once. I hate that we can’t do anything for her.”

“It is regrettable,” Linhardt added lethargically. “But there isn’t anything we can do about it. We can’t exactly attend her funeral. Not unless we want to be lynched by her supporters.” 

Dorothea spoke up in a quiet, broken voice. “We should do something for her here at the monastery.”

Leonie, who had remained quiet up until that point, gaped at Dorothea like she had lost her mind. 

“Are you serious? That woman waged war for five and a half years! She burned, and murdered, and let thieves pick at what was left without any regard to _any _of you! She’d sooner stomp on your corpse than anything else.”

“What do you know?!” Dorothea contested, her voice cracking with emotion. “You never even met her!”

Bernadetta hugged herself with a sob. “I-I’m sorry I even brought it up; please don’t fight!” She pleaded. Ferdinand pulled her close to him wordlessly. 

Alois, Goddess bless his soul, stepped in between Leonie and Dorothea, hands extended on either side to prevent the two women from tearing each other apart. “Alright, alright. Let’s just all calm down. This is a stressful time for everyone; fighting amongst ourselves will only make it worse.” 

“Alois!” Leonie began, but quickly stood down when the knight gave her a pointed look. She scoffed and stormed off to her quarters. Petra gathered Dorothea, who was crying into her hands, into her arms and whispered gentle, loving words into her ear as she lead her away. Slowly the resistance army left the entrance hall to grieve in their own ways, until it was only Byleth and Alois left. Alois sighed wearily and addressed the mint-haired woman. 

“Bylie?” He hedged as he stepped closer. “You haven’t said a word since we left Enbarr. How are you faring?” 

Byleth flung herself at Alois in responses, wrapping her arms as much as she could around his broad torso. He gave a “oh” and hugged her back, shielding her from the cruelty of the word as much as he could.

———————

A bouquet of red carnations was placed on the bed in Edelgard’s old room. Byleth had brought some prayer incense, but hesitated in lighting it. Edelgard had confessed to her that she did not care for the Goddess, much less believe in her. To pray for said deity to guide Edelgard’s soul to a peaceful rest would be like spitting on her grave. Byleth sighed and drew her knees up to her chest, tears burning at her eyes.

“_Please… do not cry for me, my teacher…”_

Those had been one of the last things Edelgard had said before The Sword of The Creator severed her head from her shoulders. She had said that, but Byleth was sure Edelgard was doing everything she could to not cry. How cruel was it that, after six months of near-constant numbness, Byleth’s emotions were only reawakened by the loss of someone dear to her. Perhaps that was her fate; to regress into a hollow shell of a woman inbetween her loved ones dying. 

As deep in her own grief as she was, Byleth did not notice Bernadetta start to cross the threshold until she squeaked in surprise. 

“Oh, Profes- Byleth. A-are you… um… do you want to be alone? I-I can come back later. It’s no problem.” She stammered, hands gripping the stems of white paper carnations tightly, but not tight enough that her fingernails bit into them. 

“You can come in.” Byleth replied flatly. Bernadetta gave a weak smile and walked inside. Gently, like everything’s would crumble to dust if she applied too much pressure, she laid her small paper bouquet next to the live one. At Byleth’s silent invitation, she sat next to her. Soon after Ferdinand came, armed with white carnations that were likewise left on Edelgard’s bed. Next came Petra and Dorothea, with painted carnations and a funeral dirge in Petra’s native tongue. They harmonized beautifully, despite Dorothea not being entirely fluent yet. Caspar and Linhardt didn’t come with flowers, as both of them were hopeless when it came to plants. Caspar was about to go pick some, seeing the growing collection on Edelgard’s bed, but Linhardt stopped him with a quiet command of:

“Just stay and sit still.”

As the dormortory rooms were only meant for _maybe _three young adults, it was a very tight fit for seven grown adults to be there at the same time. It was cramped, and, uncomfortable, and Byleth was positive Ferdinand’s elbow was digging into her ribs, but she found that she didn’t care. She didn’t know what Edelgard would think, seeing the class who had fought against her gathered together to mourn her. Whatever the fate of her soul was, Byleth hoped Edelgard was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Black Eagles love Edelgard, despite the path she chose. Fight me on this.  
Also carnations are El’s favorite. I chose red, specifically, since that is her defining color.


End file.
